Önder Mah. 19 Sk Şiiri - Sıcak Rüzgar

Önder Mahallesi 19. Sokak

Önder Mahallesi, on dokuzuncu sokak,
Yamalı çorapla büyüyen çocuklar,
Bir kenar mahalleydi, işçi mahallesi,
Ama gönüller zengindi, tertemizdi arkadaşlıklar.

Mahallem bir hatıra defteri gibi,
Her sokağında ayrı bir hikâye gizli.
Kimi zaman bir top, kimi zaman leğen,
Çocukluğumuz orada geçti sessizce, derinden.

Önder Mahallesi’nde, 19. Sokak’ta çocuk olmak demek,
Sabahtan akşama sokakta oyun oynamak demek.
Ne anne endişeli, ne baba telaşlıydı,
Çocuklar sokakta özgürdü, güven doluydu yüreği.

Kenar mahalleydi belki,
Ama yürekler ortadaydı, dostluklar en önde.
Okumuş azdı ama adam gibi adam çoktu,
Sözün kıymeti vardı, selamın da.

Babam suskun, haberlere kilitli akşamlar,
Evde sadece nefes alırdık, başka hakkımız yok,
Kız çocukları okutulmazdı bizim oralarda,
Oysa okuma yazma bilmeyen annem ne çok şey öğretmiş.

Mahmut Bakkal yazardı ekmeği deftere,
Babamın geldiği gün ödenirdi hepsi özenle.
Bayram sabahı gazoz kapılır ilk iş,
Şeker torbamızda umut, ellerimizde neş’e piş.

Bakkalda birkaç bisküvi, bir avuç hayal,
Kokusu hâlâ burnumda o eski gofretin,
Çikolata lüks, patates közde nimet,
Yokluk vardı belki ama huzur vardı evlerin.

Bayram sabahlarında giyerdik en yeni giysiyi,
Sürerdik kolonya, öperdik büyüklerin ellerini.
Şeker torbaları dolardı, şekersiz evleri atlardık,
Şekeri olmayan teyzeye mahcup gülümseyip kaçardık.

Top peşinde bir gün, ip atlayan kızlar,
Çelik çomak, saklambaç, yüzümüzde yazlar.
Ne kapılar kilitliydi, ne gönüller,
Mahalle güvenliydi, çocuklar özgürce gezer.

Üç korner bir penaltı, en tartışmalı konuydu,
Top kiminse oyunun kuralları da onun olurdu.
Ayakkabılar kale, forma terli tişörtlerimiz,
En güzel maçlar toprakta, en hakiki terimiz.

Erkekler çelik çomakta, kızlar ip atlamada,
Kavga da olurdu ama saygı aşılmazdı asla.
Yamalı elbiseler içinde büyüdük,
Ama yüreklerimiz zengindi, mahallenin çocukları olarak.

Küçücük evlerde koca kalabalıklar yaşardı,
Kanepede yatmak bile ayrıcalıktı bazen.
Bir parça kuru ekmek, sofranın yıldızıydı,
Çünkü sofralarda sevgi, tabaklarda yokluk vardı.

Kış gelince kayardık yokuştan aşağı poşetle,
Leğen bulursak kral olurduk o gün mahallede.
Soba üstünde yemek pişer , dışarda ayaklarımız donar,
Islanmış çoraplar kururdu sobaların kenarında azar azar.

Kış geldi mi annem dışarda çamaşır yakardı,
Kardan soğuk, dumandan sıcak kazanlar altında.
Çamaşır yıkarken közde patates,
Kokusuyla çocukluk sevinci sarardı içimizi.

Sobada tarhana, annemin ellerinden,
Kalburdan geçen tarhana, huzurun kokusu,
Çamaşır için yakılan ateşte
Patates pişerdi, çocuklukla tutuşurdu duygusu.

Her bayram öncesi bir dana,
Bahçede dost olurdu bize,
Domates ekmekle beslediğim,
Kurbandan önce bir kardeş gibiydi bana.

Kurban gelince babam önceden alırdı danayı,
Biz çocuklar ona ekmek, domates taşırdık.
Kucaklayıp severdik, bize dost bilirdi kendini,
Kesildiğinde içimiz sızlar, ama kavrulan etle ziyafet başlardı.

Durali Amca kurban getirirdi köyden,
İsmail Abi tulumbaya götürmemize yardım ederdi.
O telaş, o heyecan…
Mahallede kurbanlık sulamak bile ayrı bir hatıraydı.

Deli Ekrem geçerdi, arkasında ipli bisiklet,
Takılırdık peşine, çocukluğun en saf neşesiyle elbet.
Sokakta kızınca bize bağırırdı: “Bırakın beni Rahatca!”
Gülüşmeler karışırdı mahalleye masumca.

Camiye giderdik, ya kendi isteğimizle ya babanın baskısıyla,
Gitsek hoca döverdi, gitmesek baba.
Yine de çocukluğun o saf haliyle giderdik,
Maneviyatla yoğrulurdu ruhumuz, her ne olursa olsun.

Kimi zaman dükkâna, kimi zaman camiye,
Ama hiçbir zaman biri "Oku!" demezdi bize,
Ders değil, işti öncelik,
Yol gösteren olmayınca, yolumuzu kaybettik belki de.

Amcam sofrada çocuklarına çay doldururdu,
Bizim evde hiç görmedim o sıcak sahneyi.
Babam asabi, uzaktı bize,
Ama kurbanlıkla sarmaş dolaş olduğumu hatırlarım.

Ahmet Amcam bir başkaydı,
Çocuklarına çayını kendi koyar, sofrada huzur olurdu.
Bizim evde babam sertti, suskun, uzak.
Konuşmak bile lüks, nefes almak kadardı hakkımız.

Kızlar okutulmazdı, ev işi hiç bitmezdi,
Annem tarhana pişirirdi, evin buram buram kokusu oydu.
Sobanın üstünde kaynayan hayat,
Aslında annenin yüreğiydi bizi doyuran.

Annelerin günleri olurdu, sırayla her bahçede,
Ellerde el işi, dillerde dedi kodu olaylar magazince.
O gün annem en temiz entarisini giyerdi,
Gözü işinde, dedikodulara kulak vermezdi.

İlkokulda yokluk vardı, perde yoktu, örtü yoktu,
Öğretmen hayal kurar, çocuklar beslenme getiremezdi.
Sınıfta Hasan Basri vardı,
Ceketiyle ağırbaşlı, sessiz bir prens gibiydi; hayran kalırdım.

Sınıf arkadaşlarım da benim gibiydi,
Hepimizin gözlerinde başka başka hikâyeler,
Sakladım duygularımı,
Çünkü anlatmak neye yarardı ki?

Mobilya atölyemiz vardı, ders yerine dükkana giderdik,
Kimse "Oku evladım!" demezdi,
İşti öncelik, çıraklıkla yoğrulurdu kader.
Öyle geçti çocukluk, yoklukla, umutla, sessizlikle.

Okul yolu buzlu olurdu, cam gibi birikintiler,
Ayakla kırardık, cam gibi dağılırdı hayaller.
Dönüşte annem kapıyı aralık bırakırdı,
Ekmek aşı ya da tarhana kokusu içeri çağırırdı.

Ortaokulda Sinan’la beraberdik,
Hafta sonu dükkâna gitmezsek dayak vardı.
Amcam çocuklarını korur, bizi ezerdi,
Babam bir türlü kol kanat geremedi bize.

Satılmış Hocam, Mehmet Abi, Gazi Abi
İlgi gösteren az sayıda güzel insandı.
Onlarla bir nebze olsun aydınlanırdı gönlümüz,
Yolumuzu gösteren onlar oldu mahallede.

Alt sokakta Süllelliler, biraz sert mizacında,
Karşıda Mesut Abi, Kazım Abi,
Ve “Goca Mehmet”…
“Hoyuz” diyen, “vayya” diye yemin eden tatlı çocuk,
Konuşması gülümsetirdi bizi çocuk yüreğimizle.

Akşam olurdu, mahalleye serilirdi bir sessizlik,
Çamaşır iplerinde dalgalanırdı günün bitişi.
Ve biz, yastığımıza baş koyarken düşünürdük:
"Bir daha yaşanmaz bu çocukluk, bu temizlik."

İşte böyleydi bizim çocukluğumuz,
Yoklukla, sevgiyle, mahalleyle yoğrulmuştu.
Her köşesinde ayrı bir anı,
Her adımda bir ömür gizliydi 19. Sokak’ta.

Ve şimdi dönüp bakınca,
Ne büyük fedakârlıklar, ne sessiz kahramanlıklar görüyorum.
Annemin yokluğu, babamın sessizliği,
Ama o 19. Sokak – benim ruhumun ilk şiiri...

Leader District 19. Street

Leader District, nineteenth street,
Children who grew up with patched socks,
It was a slum, a workers' neighborhood,
But the hearts were rich, the friendships were immaculate.

My neighborhood is like a memory book,
There is a different story hidden in every street.
Sometimes a ball, sometimes a basin,
Our childhood was spent there quietly, deeply.

In the Leader District, 19. It means being a child on the street,
It means playing games on the street from morning to night.
Neither mom was worried, nor dad was fussy,
The children were free on the street, their hearts were full of confidence.

It was a slum maybe,
But hearts were in the middle, friendships were at the forefront.
He had read a little, but he was a lot like a man,
Your word was valuable, and so was your greeting.

My father is speechless, locked in the news evenings,
We used to just breathe at home, we have no other right,
Girls were not taught in our places,
However, my illiterate mother taught me a lot.

Mahmut Bakkal would write the bread in the notebook,
It was paid on the day my father arrived, all carefully.
On the morning of the feast, soda is snatched first thing,
Hope in our candy bag, joy in our hands.

A few biscuits at the grocery store, a handful of dreams,
The smell of that old wafer is still in my nose,
Chocolate is a luxury, potatoes are a blessing in embers,
Maybe there was absence, but there was peace in the houses.

We used to wear the newest clothes on holiday mornings,
We used to rub cologne, kiss the hands of adults.
Candy bags were full, we'd skip sugar-free houses,
We would smile embarrassed at the aunt who didn't have sugar and run away.

One day in pursuit of the ball, girls jumping rope,
Steel rod, hide and seek, it's written on our faces.
No doors were locked, no hearts,
The neighborhood was safe, children walked freely.

A three-corner penalty was the most controversial issue,
Whoever had the ball, the rules of the game would also be his.
Shoes are kale, our T-shirts with sweaty jerseys,
The most beautiful matches are on the ground, our most genuine sweat.

Boys are on steel rods, girls are jumping rope,
There would also be a fight, but the respect would never be exceeded.
We grew up in patchy dresses,
But our hearts were rich, as children of the neighborhood.

Huge crowds lived in tiny houses,
Even sleeping on the couch was a privilege sometimes.
A piece of dry bread was the star of the table,
Because there was love on the tables, absence on the plates.

When winter came, we would slide down the slope with a bag,
If we found a basin, we would be the king in the neighborhood that day.
Food cooks on the stove, our feet freeze outside,
Wet socks would dry by the stoves little by little.

When winter came, my mother used to burn laundry outside,
Under cold boilers from snow, hot boilers from smoke.
Potatoes in the embers while doing laundry,
The joy of childhood would envelop us with its smell.

Tarhana on the stove, from my mother's hands,
Tarhana passing through the griddle, the smell of peace,
On the fire lit for laundry
He would cook potatoes, the feeling would ignite with childhood.

A calf before each feast,
He would be a friend to us in the garden,
Which I feed with tomato bread,
He was like a brother to me before the victim.

When the victim came, my father used to buy the calf in advance,
We children used to carry bread and tomatoes to him.
We embraced and loved, he knew himself a friend to us,
We would ache when it was cut, but the feast would begin with the roasted meat.

Uncle Durali used to bring victims from the village,
Brother Ismail would help us take him to the jumpsuit.
That rush, that excitement…
Even the sacrificial watering in the neighborhood was a separate memory.

Crazy Ekrem would pass by, a rope bike behind him,
We would follow him, of course, with the purest joy of childhood.
When he got angry in the street, he would yell at us: "Let me alone!”
Laughter mingled innocently in the neighborhood.

We used to go to the mosque, either by our own will or under the pressure of the father,
If we went, the teacher would beat us, if we didn't go, Dad.
Still, we would go in that pure form of childhood,
Our soul was kneaded with spirituality, no matter what.

Sometimes to the store, sometimes to the mosque,
But never has someone said, "Read!" he wouldn't tell us,
It was not a lesson, it was a job priority,
With no one to guide us, maybe we've lost our way.

My uncle used to fill tea for his children at the table,
I've never seen that hot scene in our house.
My father was angry, distant to us,
But I remember being wrapped up in sacrifice.

My Uncle Ahmed was another,
She would make her own tea for her children, there would be peace at the table.
In our house, my father was stern, taciturn, distant.
Even talking was a luxury, our right was as much as breathing.

Girls were not taught, housework was never finished,
My mother used to cook tarhana, she was the smell of the house from here to here.
Life simmering on the stove,
In fact, it was your mother's heart that fed us.

There would be mothers' days, in each garden in turn,
Handcrafted in the hands, he said in the languages of the code of events magazine.
That day my mother wore her cleanest Jul,
His eye was on his work, he did not listen to rumors.

There was an absence at the elementary school, there were no curtains, there were no covers,
The teacher was dreaming, the children could not bring food.
Hasan Basri was in the class,
He looked like a demure, quiet prince with his jacket; I would admire.

My classmates were just like me,
There are other stories in all of our eyes,
I hid my feelings,
Because what was the use of telling?

We had a furniture workshop, we used to go to the store instead of studying,
No one said, "Read it, my child!" he wouldn't say,
Work was the priority, fate was kneaded with apprenticeship.
That's how childhood passed, with absence, with hope, with silence.

The school road would be icy, puddles like glass,
We would break it with our feet, dreams would fall apart like glass.
On the way back, my mother would leave the door December,
The smell of bread or tarragon would call in.

I was with Sinan in middle School,
There was a beating if we didn't go to the store on the weekend.
My uncle used to protect his children, he used to crush us,
My father couldn't give us any kind of wings.

Sold Out Teacher, Brother Mehmet, Brother Gazi
It was a small number of beautiful people who showed interest.
Our hearts would have been enlightened a little bit with them,
They were the ones who showed us the way in the neighborhood.

Sullelli people on the lower street, with a bit of a harsh temperament,
Opposite is Brother Mesut, Brother Kazim,
And “Goca Mehmet”…
The sweet boy who says "Hoyuz”, swears "vayya”,
His speech made us smile with our child heart.

It would be evening, there would be a silence in the neighborhood,
It rippled on the clotheslines at the end of the day.
And we used to think while we were putting our heads on our pillow:
"This childhood will never happen again, this cleansing."

That's how our childhood was,
It was kneaded with absence, with love, with the neighborhood.
A separate memory in every corner,
A lifetime was hidden at every step 19. On the street.

And now when I look back,
What great sacrifices, what silent heroics I see.
The absence of my mother, the silence of my father,
But he's 19. The street - the first poem of my soul...

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Kayıt Tarihi : 15.5.2025 15:29:00